“Do you live here?” asked Charlotte.
Angelina grabbed the crumpled sheets at the bottom of the bed and flung them towards the pillows at the head in what looked like a half-hearted attempt to make it. “Sometimes.”
The door clicked shut behind them and Charlotte turned to find several extra bolt locks. Upward-pointing square hooks hung on either side of the door, looking very much like the sort of hooks someone would place a large piece of wood or metal into to brace a door. She didn’t have to look far before she spotted a long thin piece of metal leaning against the wall. She suspected it fit perfectly between those two hooks.
Charlotte motioned to the locks. “Should I be worried?”
“Hm?” Angelina made another lackluster attempt to make the bed and then shooed at it as if it could get up and leave in shame.
“Expecting someone?” Charlotte added, still pointing at the multitude of locks.
“Always,” said Angelina without looking up. She opened bureau drawers, one after the next, rifling through balled up clothing, until she pulled out a small wooden box. She carried it to the bed and opened it to retrieve a wad of postcards from inside. “These are from her.”
She handed them to Charlotte, who sat on the most-made corner of the bed to study the cards, flipping over one after the next. Each was from a different state and town but none had any writing on them except the address of the Loggerhead Inn.
“How do you know they’re from her?” she asked.
Angelina looked grim. “I know.”
“Is there a reason she’d send blank cards?”
“To let her father know she’s alive—” Angelina looked away and Charlotte suspected she’d said more than she’d meant to.
“Her father is alive? He’s here?”
“Would that be strange?”
“It would mean you’ve always known more about her than you were letting on.”
Angelina’s expression fell slack, losing all readability. “Not necessarily.”
Charlotte frowned. She wasn’t in the mood to be pulled into the rabbit hole by Angelina’s pathological subterfuge. “My grandfather died the same year Siofra was born. I figured the last thing he did—”
Angelina laughed. “Was knock up your grandmother?”
“Yes. But the name on the birth certificate—”
“Wasn’t your grandfather’s name.”
“No. I thought maybe it was forged for a reason I couldn’t know.” She squinted at Angelina. “You’re saying my grandmother had Siofra with another man? And he’s here?”
Angelina nodded. “He owns the place.”
“But he’s here?”
Angelina fiddled with some invisible thing in her hand and mumbled her answer. “In the penthouse.”
Charlotte looked up as if she could teleport her way to the top of the building. There was something odd about the way Angelina seemed to know, without a doubt, he was in the penthouse at that moment. “Can I talk to him?”
“That would be difficult.”
“Why?”
“He’s in a coma.”
“Oh.”
That explains that.
“Can I ask what happened?”
Angelina stiffened. “No.” She looked away and then looked back, her expression softening. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
“You understand that makes Siofra my aunt?”
Angelina nodded. “Half-aunt. Why do you think I told you about Mick?”
“You mean Shea?”
Angelina tilted her head and smiled at her as if she pitied her for her slow-moving brain. “Nickname. Think about it.”
By then, Charlotte had already worked it out.
McQueen. Mick. Right.
She flipped through the postcards again, sorting them in order of postmark. The dates were widely spaced, often six months or more apart.
“Does her father know about these? Did the locations mean anything to him?”
“He knew about a few, before…” She flicked her hand in the air to invoke whatever had led to the man’s coma.
Charlotte searched for any kind of pattern. “Is there any reason to believe there might be significance to the locations?”
Angelina shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. Mick’s good at codes.” She scratched the back of her head. “Among other things.”
“What do you mean he’s good at codes?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. He just is.”
“You mean, like, for the NSA?”
Angelina stared at her until she looked away.
Ok. Not answering that one.
Charlotte huffed. “We’ll come back to that.” She lifted the wad of postcards. “But you’re saying it’s possible there’s a pattern here? Not crazy to think there might be a hint?”
“Not crazy. Though, I can tell you, I haven’t been able to figure it out.”
“And Mick didn’t either?”
“Not that he mentioned.”
Charlotte took a deep breath, struck again by the idea that her grandmother had a child with a man who might be a few hundred feet away from her. Did her mother ever know she had a sister?
“What is it?” asked Angelina.
Charlotte snapped from her thoughts. “Huh? Oh. Nothing. I was thinking after my grandfather died my Nanny found a new man fast.”
Angelina laughed. “Old man.”
Charlotte scowled. “He’s old?”
“No, well yes, but not then. That’s not what I meant. There’s something else you should probably know.”
Charlotte found herself worried by the woman’s suddenly serious tone. “What?”
“By old, I meant it wasn’t the first time.”
Charlotte blinked. “What wasn’t the first time?”
“It wasn’t the first time Mick and Estelle had a child.”
Charlotte’s jaw fell open. “You mean my mother?”
Angelina pressed her lips together and nodded.
“That would make Mick—”
“Your real grandfather, too. They were married. Briefly.”
“So Siofra’s my full aunt? One hundred percent? You knew this all along?”
“Sort of.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Why do you think I’m letting you paw through her postcards? You think I
